


The unexpected consequence of insubordination

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry Potter, Aurors, Death Eaters, Dom/sub Undertones, Harry Potter Has a Crush, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Tom Riddle, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Harry has been deliberately getting into petty spats just so he can be sent to Tom's office and see the man he may or may not have a crush on, unfortunately for him, Tom might just have worked out what he's doing.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 13
Kudos: 340
Collections: Harry Potter





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies, this is in no conceivable way something that I should have been working on when I have so many unfinished fics lying around, but it's also the only half-decent thing I've written in a while, so I hope placates and that it's not too awful.

Harry swallowed as he sat alone in an office that wasn’t his own, though that was obvious. Despite being Harry Potter, he was still required to occupy the standard cubicle office until he got the same promotion as everyone else. On the other hand, this office was something else entirely—it had a view, and one of those desks big enough to satisfy even the most insatiable ego, and comfy chairs—but it wasn’t just the room itself that had perks, it was also who the office belonged to.

Tom Riddle; the man that Harry was currently waiting for occupied this room, and that made it infinitely better. 

Though in principle, Riddle was supposed to be here to chastise him for his behaviour, that was hard when he didn’t officially have the jurisdiction to discipline Aurors—he certainly couldn’t fire Harry, or even suspend him from active duty without the conjoined permission of the Head Auror—so these conversations were really just show seen by the two of them.

The only reason Harry was even sent here in the first place, instead of straight to the office of the Head Auror, was because, whilst not an Auror, Riddle was the architect and the executioner of the Minister’s new, private, military-esque security force: the Death Eaters, and as such, whenever there was an ‘incident’ that involved an Auror and a Death Eater, the Auror would be sent to Riddle for a mock reprimand.

To be honest, though, he didn’t know why other Aurors weren’t exploiting this lovely little loophole that let him stare for prolonged periods at a man who was the very definition of eye candy, and who Harry had spent far too much of his free time fantasising about taking a bite out of. But it was their loss. They were the ones— 

Harry’s train of thought was disrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him; he turned. 

Riddle was looking inappropriately good as he shut the door, that dark suit tight in all the right places but still leaving enough to the imagination that Harry found himself, quite unintentionally, chewing on his own lip as he watched him. Really, it should have been a crime for anyone to look that good, but especially someone Harry only got to look at when he was being written up for insubordination, or misbehaviour, or delinquency, or any other fancy, specialist, term they wanted to call unnecessarily picking a fight with an illegitimate security force that lacked both transparency and any constitutional mandate, not to mention flouted regulations in order to achieve political—rather than judicial—aspirations. 

Harry swallowed down that thought, though it seemed to stick in his throat for longer than necessary thanks to his dry mouth; he turned back to face the desk, his hands pressed against his thigh and his back so artificially straight. With every step he took, Harry could hear Riddle's weight pressing down into the wood; they mimicked the rhythm of his heart, or perhaps, his heart was the one that imitated the thing that was clouding every conscious thought he’d been having recently. 

“Harry...” Riddle said, not quite suddenly, but still unexpectedly enough that Harry almost jumped, “...how nice it is to see you,” he paused and let his eyes dip slowly over him, savouring every inch, “ _again_ ,” he added, waiting long enough for it to have become an insult, but perhaps it was due, after all, Harry _was_ here a lot, and it wasn’t entirely because of bad behaviour. Well, _technically_ , it was because of bad behaviour, but if said behaviour was motivated by the desire to have a meeting Riddle himself, well that was between him and his conscience. 

“You too, Riddle,” Harry replied, watching the lines of Riddle’s body as he rounded the corner of his desk, his hand gliding over the surface as he did so. To be honest, it was a mechanical response, but by this point, their routine was fairly well-rehearsed—Harry always with his head bowed a little, playing at being regretful for his actions whilst he continued to memorise every inch of Riddle's face, and Riddle watching him from the other side of his fancy desk, pretending that this time his behaviour was going to have serious consequences. 

It never did. 

And today was no different. All Riddle did was give him a cursory glance before sitting down at his desk, and turning over the papers, that someone had placed there for his reading, with both his hands and pretending that Harry didn’t exist. It was frustrating, to say the least, but at least it afforded Harry a decent view. With the light of the window behind him, Riddle was reduced to a dark silhouette on the horizon, though, that term of phrase implied it wasn’t a good look, and anyone with eyes could tell it was a fucking fantastic look. 

The dark shadows slung over his shoulders and wrapped around his throat made him look sleek and dangerous, a predator hiding in plain sight, and Harry rubbed his hands together in his lap as he watched Riddle continue to ignore him. His hands holding the papers firmly enough that Harry had to wonder what it would feel like to have Riddle's grip around his wrist, or his throat, or preferably his dick; but just thinking about that made a heat rise under Harry's collar and a scratchiness start on the tip of his tongue. He pressed his thighs together and bit down on the end of his tongue, pushing down with his teeth until he felt a sting of actual pain. But Riddle still didn't look up, his eyes instead passing over the papers like he was actually reading them

Several beats of the clock later, Riddle did look up. “So, Harry,” he said, his voice that same quality as always, smooth and low like this was all just so amusing, “you were picking fights again?”

“If that’s what it says,” Harry said, nodding to the papers now spread over Riddle’s desk, “then that’s what I did.” 

That made Riddle’s eyes linger, and a smile briefly spread across his mouth, which made Harry shift in his chair because _he_ just made Riddle smile and that sent such a thrill buzzing through his blood vessels and fizzing inside his heart. 

“Can I ask why?” Riddle said, interrupting the moment with a tilt of his head, and the press of his hand against the desk, making the papers crinkle. 

“You can ask.”

Riddle smiled properly now—all bright and glittering like good champagne; it made Harry’s head spin—and sat back in his chair, one hand still resting on the desk, the fingers tapping languidly on the wood as though Harry was an irritating child that he’d been put in charge of babysitting. The other arm was slung over the back of his chair in audacious casualness—the advantages of a desk job, he supposed—but that didn’t stop Harry’s gaze straying and his eyes tracing the line of Riddle’s jacket as far as he could before it was obscured by the desk. 

It was a nice jacket, at least, it _looked_ like a nice jacket—given that Harry’s current idea of good tailoring was a decent fitting t-shirt and a pair of jeans—and it suited Riddle; the burgundy colour of the material bringing out the red rings in his eyes and the brightness in his smile. The fit was good too, it certainly gave Harry a lot to look at, from the way it clung to his shoulder, to the way it framed his chest. Harry swallowed and tracked his gaze up each one of those shirt buttons, imagining what it would be like to undo them one by one. 

“Something distracting you, Harry?” he said, disrupting that particular fantasy. Harry perked his head up too fast, his ears prickling with the heat of embarrassment as he did so. 

“What?” 

“I asked if there was something distracting you,” Riddle repeated casually, though as he spoke, he shifted, easing his jacket off his shoulders and down his arms—how did he make that look so unbearably elegant?—and hooked it over the back of his chair. Still holding Harry’s gaze in his own, Riddle rose his hand up to the knot of his tie and slid his fingers between the fabric to loosen it. 

“I’m not distracted,” Harry said, even watched—open-mouthed—the hypnotic press of Riddle’s fingers, followed by the loosening of the loop and, eventually, the sliding of the tie itself off his neck by the end and winding it tightly around his fingers. Harry could almost imagine Riddle coiling his hair around those fingers and pulling his head back for some purpose that was as disreputable as it was delectable. 

Riddle’s smile just widened further and he slipped the material off his fingers, the coil of his tie staying in the prescribed shape on his desk, not that Harry’s eyes lingered on it for long; they couldn’t, not when Riddle was unbuttoning the two topmost buttons of his shirt to reveal a slice of his neck that Harry would very much like to touch. 

Somehow the action felt more intimate than anything that had happened here before; Riddle often took off his jacket, but removing the tie was new and practically undressing was unheard of—but certainly not unwelcome. Though Harry could already feel the colour of his blush darkening into something indecent—something that the shadows in this room couldn’t hide—and a pricking start right inside his lungs every time he tried to take a proper lungful of air. 

He shifted again, scraping the chair across the floor, and tried to ignore the way that Riddle was watching him; those dark eyes tracking every deep rise of his chest and every clench of his hands as he tried to think of something— _anything_ —other than what other parts of Riddle he’d like to see.

“I’d say,” Riddle said, standing up, his words cracking the glass of whatever this was supposed to be and allowing Harry to breathe properly again, “that we know each other fairly well now, don’t we?” 

Harry kept his eyes on Riddle, or rather on the thin sliver of skin at the base of his throat as he walked elegantly back around the other side of his desk and stood in front of it. “Perhaps,” he said, not willing to admit that he’d still like to know him a little better— _a lot better_ —though probably not in the way that Riddle was thinking of. 

Beside him now—scarcely three feet away from Harry’s designated chair—Riddle leant back against the desk; his palms pressed into the wooden surface and his fingers curled around the edge. He was watching Harry intently, his eyes shifting over the shape of his face before sliding down the contours of his neck, where they lingered for long enough that Harry found himself swallowing again, his hands pressing into each other tensely and his spine straightening out. Riddle licked his lips, the movement of his tongue slow and deliberate as he did so. 

“Then you won’t mind me speculating, will you?” he said, tilting his head forward enough for the curls of his hair to fall out of their usual style and instead hang over his forehead in a manifestation of grotesque dishevelment that looked so good it made Harry’s palms itch and his tongue go limp in his mouth. It really was a genuine crime for someone to look that unintentionally _good_. 

“No,” he said quietly.

“Good," Riddle said, "so you know what I think, Harry?” he continued, leaning his weight back ever so slightly further onto his hands, the knuckles bent as he gripped the desk and his back arched into some indecent shape that gave Harry far too many ideas. Riddle still didn’t take his eyes off him. “I think that you’re doing this deliberately,” he said, with the hint of a smile starting to flicker about his lips. 

“Why would I do that?” Harry said, trying to feign casualness as best he could, but failing miserably thanks to the breathless quality of his tone and the slight tremor affecting the words; he stared hard at the floor, like that would stop Riddle seeing the rosy pink flush climbing so frantically up his throat. 

“Well, Harry,” Riddle said, shifting himself again, just slightly, though the movement was enough for his belt buckle to catch the light as he did so—a white slice of light cutting into Harry’s skin and casting light on all his pink-stained embarrassment. “I can think of two potential reasons,” Riddle continued, his eyes stuck to him, he could feel them burrowing under the skin of his shoulder and making his insides shift and itch and burn. Harry squirmed in his seat, the room at once feeling far too warm, and his clothes feeling too heavy against his skin. 

“One,” Riddle said, “you’re a masochist with a fetish for work-related punishment,” he paused, letting the words stew in the air as he smiled to himself—Harry caught the edge of that smile in his periphery and it was all but blinding, like a light cast onto the heart of a diamond. “Or two,” Riddle said, deliberately spinning out the syllables like spider spinning silk, each word just dripping off his tongue, “you have an ulterior motive, Harry."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that, I actually finished something; I hope it's alright.

Harry didn’t answer. He honestly hadn’t expected Riddle to see through him like that, well, at least, not this quickly; he’d expected to get at least a couple of months of appreciation in before Riddle gained an inkling that maybe he wasn’t here _only_ because he liked to pick fights with the Death Eaters. But, apparently, not. 

Without thinking he bowed his head and directed his gaze towards the floor, examining the scuff marks on the base of Riddle’s desk, but, and as though there were physical hooks embedded into his skin, Harry found his gaze wandering like it was being pulled by a gravitational force. He turned his head just slightly to be able to watch Riddle’s feet, both of his shoes were flat against the floor and a deep brown that went rather too well with his suit. 

And now that Harry was looking, he couldn’t stop and his eyes hiked up the length of Riddle’s legs and rested his gaze on the dark leather of his belt; he’d like to get his hands on the ends of that belt and feel its weight in his palm, maybe even unclip the gold-coloured buckle and slide his fingers inside and make Riddle’s face the same colour as his suit. 

“So, Harry?” Riddle said, forcing his eyes that little bit higher to watch the angles of his face, sharpened by the shadows, “care to tell me which it is?” As he spoke, he pushed himself off the edge of the desk and took a step forward, but not directly towards Harry; rather, Riddle stepped to the side of his chair, the sound of the floorboards marking each footfall. Still watching Harry as he moved, Riddle began to undo the cuff on his right wrist and roll up his sleeve, revealing the long line of his forearm.

Harry swallowed and tried not to think of what it would feel like to have Riddle’s forearm pressed against his throat or wrapped around his waist. Fortunately, he didn’t have to watch that entirely inappropriate reveal of skin for too long, as Riddle moved out of his line of sight, and Harry wasn’t willing to look _that_ desperate—not to mention, proving Riddle’s insinuations true—by turning his neck and watching him perform some new form of power-play that made Harry feel like he was a seal being circled by a shark. 

But before he could relax too much and start to think of a way out of Riddle’s questioning that could exonerate him from everything, Harry heard the distinctive click of the lock turning shut; the sound of it made a shiver push down through his skin and he clenched his hands, pushing his nails into the soft flesh of his palm. As measured as he could, Harry exhaled, trying to make his shoulders return to that careless laxity he’d started with, and his demeanour give off the impression of cavalier indifference. 

He couldn’t. 

Not when everything inside him was just strung too tight—all stretched out and pulled too thin—because he was actually shut— _locked_ —in here with Riddle, and that was the beginning of just about every fantasy he’d ever had since the moment he’d first laid eyes on him. But everyone fantasied about Riddle, right?

“Well, Harry?” Riddle continued conversationally, as though he _hadn’t_ just locked himself in his private office with an Auror, who really didn’t have any business being there, “which is it?” he repeated as he circled back around, coming to stand on Harry’s right. Once again, he supported his weight with his palm spread flat across the wood, though now, Harry could also watch the natural shifts in the muscles of his forearms and let himself get lost in just how fucking good Riddle was looking right now. 

“Well—” he started, “why don’t you take a guess?” Harry managed to say, the words all coming out in a rush, tripping over themselves on his tongue so much that it was a miracle that Riddle could understand him at all.

But it made Riddle tilt his head forward in amusement, the slightest hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. It was a long moment before he looked up again, and when he did so Riddle took the time to drag his hair out of his eyes with a long, slow, sweep of his fingers. Harry couldn’t help but lick his lips at that, and take his time watching those hands, trying to bury the single stretch out thought that was filling up his brain—having those hands on _him_ —those fingers hooked around his shoulder as Riddle pushed him against the nearest available surface, or perhaps if he was feeling romantic, moulded to his jaw as he kissed him.

His precious little fantasy, however, was once again interrupted by Riddle. “If you insist,” he said, once more stepping away from his desk, but this time it wasn’t towards the door, rather it was towards Harry. “I don’t think you like the punishment,” Riddle said slowly, punctuating every word with a step forward, the floor creaking under his weight until he was standing right beside Harry. As to emphasise their closeness, Riddle leaned down, his hand resting on the arm of the chair, and his mouth beside Harry’s ear, “I think you like who gives it to you, don’t you, Harry?”

Before he could answer, Riddle stepped forward again so that he was behind him and whilst Harry could no longer see him, he could certainly _feel_ him. His physical presence was a black hole sucking the oxygen out the room and chafing at the back of Harry’s neck; he could feel it prickling over his skull and tingling down his spine as though Riddle had already laid his hands on him—he hadn’t—but _Merlin_ did Harry want him to. 

Right now, he would have happily had Riddle’s hands anywhere he wanted to put them, though he had a few personal suggestions of where he should start. 

“So, Harry,” Riddle continued, still moving in that predacious half-circle and still speaking slow, his voice smooth and low, that particular brand of masculinity threaded between the vowels that got Harry’s pulse pounding on his tongue, “am I right with that assessment?”

“I think you’re flattering yourself,” Harry said, the words sliding off his tongue before he had the time to apply a less provocative filter.

Not that Riddle seemed to mind the additional level of insubordination, after all, what was a little more by this point anyway? But he did pause right behind Harry, so close that Harry could feel the heat of his body against the nape of his neck.   
“Oh, do you?” Riddle said, the slightest hint of laughter tickling the back of his throat, “is that why you’ve been picking fights with Death Eaters on a biweekly basis for nearly a month, Harry?” he said, the tone touching on mocking, “and only ever when I’m working?”

“Just a coincidence,” Harry said, knowing fully well that it wasn’t even remotely coincidental that he only acted out when he knew Riddle was going to be available to ‘reprimand’ him—and thinking about it, whenever he played-up, no matter how inconvenient the time, Riddle was _always_ available to reprimand him.

Maybe it meant something.

But Riddle distracted him again. “Are you sure, Harry?” he said, as he began to walk again, Harry’s heart aligning its beats to the sounds of Riddle’s steady footfalls. It almost hurt to have his heart throwing itself so carelessly against his ribs, loud enough that he would swear Riddle could hear it too. 

Riddle was in front of him now, standing there, outlined by the glow of the sun; he was tall enough and close enough that in his current position Harry was directly in front of his abdomen and he had to bite his lip hard, not to drop his gaze to somewhere he shouldn’t be looking. Instead, he tilted his head up, half-tempted to get out of the chair and go toe to toe with Riddle, but Harry didn’t move because he was also half-tempted to know what Riddle would do if he stayed exactly where he was. 

“Because it certainly doesn’t feel like a coincidence to me,” he said, leaning back against his desk again and stubbornly not moving from the line of the horizon, as though he was daring Harry to look in all the places that he really wanted to. “Rather,” Riddle continued, “I think you’ve orchestrated this entire encounter…” He paused, shifting one hand to trace along the line of his belt, his fingertips pressing into the leather and compelling Harry’s eyes to follow as he outlined the buckle; Harry swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away even as his mouth grew hot and scratchy and unbearably dry. “…And I want to know why, Harry.”

As much as it physically _hurt_ to do so, Harry dragged his eyes away from what Riddle was doing with his hands and looked at Riddle’s face, and then at the floor, “surely it’s obvious,” he said, that prickling flush burning up his face again, and this time spilling down his neck as well, heating him up from the inside out until every seam of his clothes was rubbing him raw and everything was so tight he could barely even breathe. 

In his periphery, Harry watching Riddle step forward from the desk and come into his personal space. “Oh, it’s _definitely_ obvious,” he said softly, stooping low over Harry’s chair, one hand wrapped around each arm, effectively confining Harry to his chair, “but that’s not what I’m asking.” Riddle paused to swallow, the sound ringing so loud in Harry’s ears and coursing down his veins, stretching him wide form the inside out.  
“Rather,” Riddle continued, still speaking soft and slow, the words just caressing Harry’s skin and his tone forcing his head up, “I want to know what _exactly_ it is about me that gets under your skin.”

When Harry didn’t say anything—he couldn’t possibly with how dry his throat was right now—Riddle raised one hand from the arm of the chair and gripped at Harry’s chin.  
“Is it how I look?” he murmured, his eyes so dark as they shifted over Harry’s features, reading every hopeless micro-expression that spilled out from every pore. “Or how I act?” he continued, tilting Harry’s head a little to the side and smiling at the way Harry swallowed and squeezed his legs together. “Or maybe,” Riddle said, slight teasing notes working its way into his tone, “it’s the fact you know that I’m the one in control here—that I could do anything I want to you right now.”

He gripped at Harry’s chin tighter, surely leaving behind the imprints of his fingers in his skin, not that Harry ever wanted him to stop. Riddle licked his lips, “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Harry?” he said.

“You’d let me touch you, wouldn’t you?” he murmured, and Harry felt himself nodding before he’d even consciously thought about it; that made Riddle smile, and his hand that was currently touching Harry’s chin dropped down to his thigh. At first, Riddle just pressed down lightly, leaning into Harry’s body so that he could feel the weight of someone else’s hand nearly touching his skin, but it only took a minute for that hand to begin to slide up from the knee to the crease at the top of Harry’s thigh. 

It made Harry both hot and shivery and squirming all over, his palms stinging from where his nails were pushing in and his thighs aching with the tension. After ten of the longest seconds Harry had ever lived through, Riddle slid his hand between Harry’s thighs, for a moment lingering there, before pushing them apart. Harry bit his lip—he couldn’t help it—not with the weight of Riddle’s palm pressing down on him and the coolness of the air oozing through the fabric of his trousers and making him feel all the more desperately exposed.

As if sensing how wound up he felt, Riddle dipped his gaze, with an excruciating slowness, down to look. Harry tensed, squeezing every muscle as tight as he could and practically praying that Riddle couldn’t see his obvious reaction. But Riddle had noticed, that was obvious by the way he raised his eyes back up to meet Harry’s and quirked his eyebrow, before sliding his hand just that little bit higher and pressing his thumb down until Harry scrunched his eyes shut and bit back a groan. 

“You’d let me kiss you too, wouldn’t you?” Riddle continued casually, as he raised his knee up to brace his weight between Harry’s thighs, though his hand stayed exactly where it was, and it was the other hand, the one that had been wrapped around the arm of the chair that reached up to touch at his face. The pad of Riddle’s thumb smoothed down his cheek and Harry tensed his thighs and dug his heels into the wood of the floor just to keep himself grounded in reality because Riddle might be about to kiss him.

“Wouldn’t you?” Riddle repeated and Harry nodded as hard and fast as he could. 

Using his thumb against Harry’s jaw, Riddle turned and tilted up his face, his gaze lingering at his mouth for far too many seconds. He kissed him, and it wasn’t one of those soft, chaste, things that made Harry’s heart ache—not at all—this was Riddle’s mouth pressing against his almost painfully, as though he’d been wanting to do it forever, and using the edge of his teeth and the tip of his tongue to leave Harry’s jaw throbbing. 

When he pulled away, Harry was still there, open-mouthed and gasping for it.

Riddle only looked amused, though if Harry looked closely, he could see how stretched wide Riddle’s pupils were, and how his lungs must have been heaving behind those deep breaths, and even how there was a faint flush crawling its way up between the buttons of his shirt. He looked so affected and it was so fucking good to see that, to know that _he_ did that to him. 

But Harry couldn’t muse on it for too long as Riddle leaned in again, his lips brushing against the skin of his cheek, before skimming over his ear, making all his coherent thoughts dissolve into a mess of sensation. With his spare hand, Riddle tilted Harry’s chin up, his nails digging into the soft underside. “I bet,” he murmured, so hot and so deep, his mouth blurring with the shell of Harry’s ear, “that you’d even let me fuck you, wouldn’t you, Harry?” he continued, the words sounding so fucking good that Harry twisted his neck to hear them better. 

“I could have you right here in my office, couldn’t I?” Riddle continued, “and you’d let me do anything I wanted to you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed, every letter coming out choked and desperate and filled to the brim with a want that was as heavy as it was absolute. 

“Well then, Harry,” Riddle said, “I suggest you clear your afternoon...” He paused, one hand still pressed between Harry’s thighs, and the other, now moving away from Harry’s chin and sliding down the lapels of his uniform, he paused half-way down and raised his eyes to meet Harry’s again, “…because once I get started with you, I don’t think I’m going to want to stop.”


End file.
